«Le Journal d'une femme de chambre» in inglese

September 14. To-day, September 14, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in mild, gray, and rainy weather, I have entered upon my new place.

It is the twelfth in two years.

Of course I say nothing of the places which I held in previous years.

It would be impossible for me to count them.

Ah! I can boast of having seen interiors and faces, and dirty souls.

And the end is not yet. Judging from the really extraordinary and dizzy way in which I have rolled, here and there, successively, from houses to employment-bureaus, and from employment-bureaus to houses, from the Bois de Boulogne to the Bastille, from the Observatory to Montmartre, from the Ternes to the Gobelins, everywhere, without ever succeeding in establishing myself anywhere, the masters in these days must be hard to please.

It is incredible.

The affair was arranged through an advertisement in the

"Figaro," and without any interview with Madame.

We wrote letters to each other, that is all; a risky method, often resulting in surprises on both sides.

Madame's letters are well written, it is true.

But they reveal a meddlesome and fastidious character.

Ah! the explanations and the commentaries that she insisted upon, the whys and the becauses. I do not know whether Madame is stingy; at any rate she is hardly ruining herself with her letter-paper.

It is bought at the Louvre.

I am not rich, but I have more elegance than that. I write on paper perfumed à la peau d'Espagne, beautiful paper, some of it pink, some light blue, which I have collected from my former mistresses.

Some of it even bears a countess's coronet engraved upon it. That must have been a crusher for her.

Well, at last, here I am in Normandy, at Mesnil-Roy.

Madame's estate, which is not far from the country, is called the Priory.

This is almost all that I know of the spot where henceforth I am to live.

I am not without anxiety, or without regret, at having come, in consequence of a moment's rashness, to bury myself in the depths of the country.

What I have seen of it frightens me a little, and I ask myself what further is going to happen to me here. Doubtless nothing good, and the usual worries. To worry is the clearest of our privileges.

For every one who succeeds, — that is, for every one who marries a worthy young fellow or forms an alliance with an old man, — how many of us are destined to ill-luck, swept away in the great whirlwind of poverty?

After all, I had no choice, and this is better than nothing.

This is not the first time that I have had a place in the country.